Distractions
by Silver Bones in a Green Sauce
Summary: Instead of being attacked like Jimmy, Petey is being distracted by Gary another way. Slash, Dan/Petey.
1. The Beginning

**A/N: A fic explaining why Gary didn't have Petey attacked like he did Jimmy. It'll contain slash—_Dan/Petey_ slash. Unusual, isn't it? I'm sure you're thinking that. Or something like that. Or maybe you're wondering why it's not Kirby instead of Dan. It's mostly because . . . I honestly just like Dan more. Kirby's just . . . too busy with Trent for Petey. xD Seriously though, I do love Dan, so . . . why not? Anyway, enjoy and, if you don't mind, review. **

Being a nerd was hard. Being a jock who had previously been a nerd was also hard, though easier than it had been getting shoved into lockers or trashcans on a daily basis. Dan could _handle _being a jock; he missed being a nerd sometimes—he missed the games, the role-playing, his brother—but he _liked_ playing football, and not having his head pushed into a toilet was definitely a good thing. He could even handle the realization that he was queer—him! A jock! _Queer! _It was who he had a thing for that he couldn't handle: Peter Kowalski, the dorkiest loser in the whole school.

Dan couldn't remember the first time that he had checked out a guy. It had probably been Ted or the preppy kid, Parker; most of the time that he spent by himself at night—the time his roommate spent outside of their room (Dan was beginning to suspect that Kirby had a girlfriend), the lone forty minutes or so he got to jerk off while Kirby was in the shower, the rare times in the year that he actually spent at his house—had been spent thinking of them—that is, until he saw Kowalski in the showers.

It had been a long day. Ted had pushed them hard; the coach had pushed them harder; Dan had pushed himself the hardest. Despite being on the team for more than a year, he still worried that he wasn't good enough, that he'd be kicked off and he'd end up back in his old clique. His paranoia was enough to make him work longer and harder than what was necessary. Because of this—because he stayed on the field later than any of the other guys were willing to—he didn't take a shower until darkness had already fallen and the other players on the team had shuffled off to their dorm. Kowalski, who Dan had seen bullied in the shower room on more than one occasion, had apparently also put off his shower, probably in the hopes that he wouldn't run into any of the bullies that usually got to him during gym.

Dan had known for a long time that he was into his own gender, a secret that he made sure to keep to himself; even his brother, who he had once been close to, didn't know. A good number of the nerds at Bullworth were queer or at least bi, but the jocks? You couldn't be a jock and a fag at the same time; you couldn't be a jock and a _lot _of things at the same time. It just didn't work that way. Because of this—he had decided that he would be a football player long before he figured out he was gay, and even if he hadn't, he wouldn't have let his taste in gender stop him—he kept his sexuality to himself. It wasn't difficult. The guys that he found attractive—Ted, Parker, Casey, Vincent—were guys who stood a fair chance of beating his ass and were, without a doubt, completely straight; there would be no sneaking around with anyone because he couldn't think of a single obviously gay person he was into that he could sneak around _with_. That is, until he decided to take a shower.

Kowalski was, with the exception of the little kids, the shortest student at their school—and that was including the girls. The kid had an ass that was pretty much nonexistent and Dan couldn't spot a muscle anywhere on his scrawny form. His hair was caramel colored, and though it wasn't the spot-on _ginger _red that Dan's was, it was close enough; Dan despised red hair. Looks aside, the boy was a _dork_; even the nerds wouldn't take him. The company he _did _keep was more than a little questionable—Gary Smith, the school psycho, and Jimmy Hopkins, the punk of a new kid. Peter Kowalski was _not_ what Dan would consider his type. Despite this though, when Dan chanced across the smaller boy taking a shower, he crouched to watch instead of letting his presence be known. Even if he wasn't attracted to Kowalski, who knew when the next chance to see someone nude would pop up? Boys would be boys, as his mother would say, and boys weren't known for shying away from perversion. Of course, Dan didn't stop to consider the fact that he was being a pervert, but if he had, he wouldn't honestly care. That was the great thing about not being a nice person; you didn't even have to try to _make _yourself care about other people. Years of being bullied made it difficult to feel any guilt when it came to being cruel to others, and he had learned years before that if you want something in life, you should just take it. Because he had done this years earlier, life was good—or, at least, it had been before the little twink made his breath catch in his throat and his dick a little _too_ interested for Dan's liking.

_"They'll name a city after us . . . and later say it's all our fault . . ."_

The kid also apparently had shitty taste in music. The words to whatever girly song he was singing were spoken softly, but Dan strained to hear; he could always use more ammo to bully the boy with. His voice—who sung in the school showers? Chances are, even if you _think_ you're alone, you're probably not—was average. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't exactly _un_pleasant either. He could get used to it with time, assuming he ever gave the kid a chance—the idea that Petey might not be gay or interested never occurred to him—and they grew comfortable enough in their relationship to sing around each other.

_"We wear our scarves just like a noose . . ."_

The room had a fair amount of steam in it, but Dan could still make out patches of the boy's skin. His eyes followed the drops of water cascading down Kowalski's back—Petey was turned so his front was facing away from Dan—and rested on the tight looking ass beneath it. He had heard the boy muttering to himself—every single kid at their school had a problem with talking to themselves, it seemed—about being a virgin until the day he died, and the thought of changing that for him made Dan's slacks tighten. Maybe Kowalski _was_ his type.

_"Hold me close, I'm falling faster . . ."_

Dan had kissed girls—Beatrice once, back when he had been a nerd, Christy a few times, Angie once or twice—but it had never _done_ anything for him, try as he might to become aroused. It was pathetic, and Dan _hated _to be considered pathetic, even by himself, but he was becoming desperate, as hormonal teenage boys were prone to become when they couldn't find an outlet other than their own hand. Even if Kowalski _wasn't _his type, Dan would settle for him. The only questionable part about it was how he was going to approach the boy . . .

_". . . tell me this could last forever."_

If Dan could be considered anything, it would be determined. He had wanted to shake off his old clique to become a jock, and what had he done? Just that. How many other nerds had transformed into football players? He hadn't heard of any. Getting laid should be a piece of cake. He would just go up to Kowalski and . . . And what? Shove him against the shower wall and proceed to molest him? Hot as that would be—his bulge still hadn't gone away—he doubted it would go over well. The kid would probably just think of it as a cruel joke. What else could he do then? Try to romance the boy? That wasn't likely. Dan, for all his smarts, couldn't think of anything. He would tell the guys that he needed help with a girl and ask for their advice. Until then though . . .

_"And if Cupid's got a gun then he's shootin'. . ."_

Kowalski was attractive in an odd way, Dan supposed. Cute, feminine. It was true that the kid wasn't really his type, but maybe he was _better _than the guys Dan usually got off to. He had worked hard for his body type over the last few years—Dan was proud to say that he was no longer scrawny or weak—and maybe instead of going for guys with muscles, maybe he should go for someone who would, without a doubt, be the girl in their relationship. It was a thought that had occurred to him before; he was attracted to both muscles and fem, but the reason he targeted jockish boys was because of habit—he had, after all, once been considered the "fem" type of guy. Now that he was butch, it could be time to break the habit . . . It was ridiculous, even to him, but it made sense in an odd way. Peter Kowalski, he decided, fit the bill of his new type.

_"And love until we bleed . . ."_

Because he was focused on Kowalski, he didn't notice someone moving beside him. The fog and the kid's singing helped cover the other person's movements and it wasn't until Dan felt a hand cover his mouth that he realized he had company. Acting on his first reaction, he thrusted his elbow out, hitting whoever had ahold of him in the stomach. He made a move to turn, but his attacker—if they could even be called that—pressed their weight fully against his body, keeping him from turning around to see their face. It was another guy, he could tell; he could have shaken any of the girls off, except for maybe Eunice, and her weight pressing down on him probably would have knocked him out already from lack of oxygen to the lungs.

"Hold _still, _Wilson."

Though the voice had been urgent, the speaker had made sure to keep it quiet. Dan had been right; it _was _a guy. He would have preferred Eunice.

"What do you want, Smith?"

He was still struggling; it wasn't smart to let the school sociopath get too close, and from their position, the creep could strangle him. Other than a few grunts that sounded more from irritation than pain, Dan's elbows to the boy's stomach, head, and arms didn't seem to have much of an affect. Dan was about to start kicking, no longer thinking about the fact that the louder he got, the more likely Kowalski could hear him, but something the brunet said caused him to go still.

"If you don't stop, I'll tell Femme-boy you were jerking off to him."

Smith was dangerous; it was a well-known fact around the school. He could have threatened anything—he was going to slit Dan's throat, he would punch him in the crotch—and Dan would have believed it. He wouldn't put it past the boy to actually _kill_ someone. Dan was smart enough to realize though that Garry had said _"If you don't stop"_ though, which meant that he might _not_ tell. Not wanting the whole school—because rumors spread like wild fire, he knew—to think he was a fag, Dan grit his teeth and went along with what the boy wanted; he stopped struggling.

"What do you _want_?"

He half expected not to get an answer again, but he knew that Smith liked to talk—and talk he did.

"Femme-boy's been a pain in the ass lately. If you distract him, keep him away from Hopkins, I won't let the whole school know you were fantasizing about becoming his wife."

"I wasn't—"

"Is it a _deal_, Danny-Boy?"

"How am I even—"

"I'll _help _you, of course. No one knows Little Petey's heart like me. Now, the first thing you've gotta do. . . ."

Smith was grinning by the time he said he'd help; he had never had any doubt that Dan would agree with him. The red head was slowly warming up to the idea, like Gary had expected him to. Dan wanted Kowalski, and if the kid's best friend was willing to help . . . It didn't matter that Smith was dangerous; Dan was under the impression he could take care of himself. He was, after all, a jock—a jock who got what he wanted. Determination was key, after all.

Peter Kowalski, Dan decided as Smith's ideas and the steam of the shower surrounded him, better be ready, because in a few days time, he'd have a boyfriend.


	2. Big Plans

_'There's no way this is going to work. So not gonna work, so not gonna work . . .'_

Ignoring the negative mantra that was running through his head, Dan decided that he was still going to go through with Smith's plan, at least for now. If he felt like it was taking too long or that Smith didn't know what he was talking about, which he was already beginning to suspect was the case, he would . . . he didn't know. If he didn't go along with what the creep said, he'd be outed. Would the school really believe him though? Maybe he needed to get a girlfriend to help prove it wrong, just in case . . . He would wait though. Who knows? Maybe the psycho actually knew what he was doing. That made him wonder about something _else _though—what, exactly, had Smith meant when he said that he knew Kowalski's heart better than anyone? He didn't have time to think on it though; phase one of plan Get Laid was about to start.

The first part of the plan—the only part that Smith had actually _told _him—was simple; get Kowalski to notice him. It had seemed _too _simple, which was the problem; it didn't seem like it would get him anywhere anytime soon if Kowalski just _noticed _him. He was impatient already. He would wait though. Smith had, after all, warned him that if he did anything other than what he was _ordered _to do, Kowalski would just think that he was messing with him. The time for action would be later. For now, the plan was to get Petey "thinking about" him, as Smith had put it. How faggy. The kid better be worth the trouble.

Though the plan was a simple one, it was time consuming. He drew the line at missing practice and lunch—a jock had to eat, after all—but he was missing out on a large part of his leisure time. Maybe he would be able to get his soon-to-be boy-toy to do his homework for him sometime . . . He had to focus on the plan for the time being though. The plan . . .

He had to shadow Kowalski until the kid was bullied. It seemed simple enough—the kid was a walking target—but he had to be careful. He couldn't do anything if the bully was another jock or a prep (Ted was too fond of their parties for Dan to cause trouble), and he had to be careful if it was an actual _bully _he picked a fight with; he didn't want to deal with Russell, after all. After waiting for the perfect opportunity, he just had to knock whoever it was out, scowl at Kowalski, then walk off. Simple, but effective—he hoped. Smith had assured him that the kid would spend all night trying to figure out why _he _hadn't had the shit kicked out of him. He would wait a few days and then phase two, whatever the hell _it _was, would kick in.

After following the kid for about an hour, careful not to be seen by anyone, he finally got lucky; _Fatty_, of all people, picked a fight with the smaller boy. He was chuckling to himself, marveling at how lucky he was, when his mood soured; Jimmy Hopkins, the prick he was supposed to be keeping Kowalski _away _from, had just come to the rescue. He clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing. His time had been wasted. He would have to shadow the kid another day since his protector was sure to be with him for the hour and half that Dan had left before practice began.

He walked away, shoving people with his still-clenched fists, understanding how Gary Smith felt; he was, after all, not the only one who wanted Jimmy Hopkins away from a certain boy.

/

"So, how'd your first interaction with Femme-boy go?"

There was an arm around his shoulder; Smith was too touchy, too familiar. It made his skin crawl, but he was careful not to let it show in his face. The sociopath would enjoy it if he did, and Dan didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Did you rescue him from the big, bad _student_?"

So he hadn't seen. Dan had the distinct impression that Smith wouldn't be above following him while he followed Kowalski to make sure the job he had assigned got done, but he hadn't actually _noticed _the boy lurking behind bushes or anything throughout the day, and surely he would have mentioned it if he knew that Jimmy Hopkins had interfered? Besides, the fact that Petey had been attacked by a _nerd _seemed like something the scarred boy would make fun of.

"Come on, Danny-boy, answer me."

The hand resting on his shoulder squeezed at a slightly painful level, and Dan, no longer being able to stand Gary touching him, shook it off. Somehow, whether it was because of the brunette's smirk or cocky tone, Dan got the sudden impression that Smith _knew _he hadn't gotten anywhere that day, and he was just toying with him. What a prick.

"I'm working on it."

/

The second day of shadowing Kowalski went about as well as it had the first—the only difference being that instead of Hopkins showing up and getting in the way, it was _Smith_. The bastard was smirking and glancing around as he led the smaller boy away, probably to their dorm room, and Dan _knew _that the sociopath was looking for _him_, just to laugh at how pissed off he probably looked.

/

"Danny-boy! How's—"

"I'm _working _on it."

/

The third day was definitely the most stressful. It took somewhere around an hour and forty minutes to even _find _Kowalski, and by the time he had finally caught sight of the uncliqued boy, lunch was about to begin. He glanced between the kid, who was loitering around the outside of the library, and the main school building. After a minute, his decision was made; he would stay put and keep an eye on Kowalski, not liking his chances of finding him again before practice began. After that, he had to hide, crouched behind a bush, for nearly twenty minutes for someone to finally show up and hassle Kowalski—and then, seeing _who _it was, he muttered to himself that the kid _be__tter _put out on a daily basis before, making sure no one _saw _where he was coming from, he came out from behind the bush.

Wade Martin didn't scare him; jocks didn't scare easily, after all, especially not because of prick bullies with daddy issues. He wasn't tall, though Dan wasn't either, but he was strong—and angry. There was no way that Dan could just bump into him and scare him off; he would have to fight. He refused to stalk Peter Kowalski around for one more day though, so, making it look like he was just trying to get by the red-head, he rammed into Wade's shoulder, snapping at the bully to get out of his way. It worked. Wade immediately lost interest in Kowalski, who was watching the scene before him with surprise, and turned his full focus on the jock who had the nerve to touch him.

"You wanna see me lose it? Huh, Dad? I mean, you're dead!"

They both got one good shove in before the prefects showed up, warning them of what would happen if they didn't cut it out. Wade was the first to walk off, though he gave Dan a look that held a promise of a later beating, and one of the prefects followed after him. The second prefect glared at him for all of twenty seconds before also walking off, leaving Dan alone with . . .

"Pricks like that will tear you apart if you're not careful. Watch yourself."

He scowled, picked up the book—something on art—that Wade had tore from the smaller boy's hands and thrown to the ground, tossed it to him, and walked off before he could see the kid scramble to catch it. He was sure he had gone to far; Smith had _specifically_ told him not to actually _say _anything to the boy. Later that night though, when he was laying in bed, hungry and exhausted from a practice session that had lasted twice as long as they usually did, as he thought over the day's events, he couldn't let it bother him. He was _proud _of himself, if anything. He had ignored Smith's orders and taken matters into his own hands . . . sort of. Maybe he didn't need Smith after all . . . Kowalski was probably in his bed at that very moment, jerking off to him.

/

"_Gary_ . . ."

There was an eerie silence in the room after his orgasm. With his luck, his roommate would choose that moment to show up—and he would be ecstatic because of it, because it would mean that he'd actually get to _see_ Gary. He would be made fun of, no doubt, but he would put up with it as long as it meant that Gary would actually be around; the brunette had been staying out until odd hours since he had brought up his plan to take over the school, and because Jimmy was always around, he never got to see his friend. Not that he was complaining about Jimmy; Petey would welcome any friend he could get. Sometimes he missed Gary so much that it physically hurt though, and he wished his new friend would give them some alone time. He didn't even care how pathetic it sounded. If he knew Gary wouldn't just laugh at him and call him a girl, he'd tell his friend . . . but Gary was Gary, and it was never a good idea to be sensitive around the boy.

It was around one in the morning when his roommate finally came in, and though he was still awake, Petey pretended to be asleep. He had long since showered, but as Gary stood over him, he felt exposed; he knew that it was paranoid, but he couldn't get the idea that Gary knew what had happened out of his head. It was then that a memory from the previous day came back to him—_"I hear everything." _Gary was getting out of control, he knew, but as the taller boy's hand rested on the back of his neck—Gary had never had an issue with touching people, and since Petey was his oldest friend, the smaller boy was used to it, though he thought he'd never get used to the fluttering feeling it caused his stomach to have each and every time—he couldn't bring himself to care.

"I have big plans for us, Petey. _Big_ plans."


	3. Quality Time

The air was chilly for it to only be the beginning of October. The sun was setting by the time practice was over, and darkness had fallen by the time Dan was finished up on the field. Because his friends had already showered and wondered off for the night, leaving no one to call him a wimp for it, he felt no shame in rubbing his hands over his arms; it was so cold that he would have sworn his breath could be seen. A hot shower would make him feel better.

"Cold, cold, cold."

His jersey was pulled off and his trousers were unbuttoned, the shower water already running, before he figured out that he wasn't the only one in the room.

"Uh . ."

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, waiting for the water temperature to warm up before he got in, while Kowalski tried to get his attention; a minute, thirty seconds, he didn't know. His head turned to the direction that the hesitant voice was coming from when he finally did notice it, and he couldn't explain why he was so surprised to see the caramel-haired boy standing there. Both of them did, after all, make it a habit to take their showers after everyone else had long after departed the gym. Still though, he _was_ surprised, and it caused his voice to come out more snappish than he had intended.

"What do you want, kid?"

At least he hadn't called the boy a prick. That'd be a definite setback of his barely made progress.

"Thanks—for the other day, I mean. That guy's a real jerk."

Kowalski wasn't the ungrateful type, at least; just the _awkward_ type. The kid was shifting his weight and lowering his eyes like a real loser. Did he honestly expect Dan to kick his ass? . . . Well, probably, but there was nothing he could do about that—yet. Still, the kid was talking to a jock; he had balls. Dan turned his head away, trying not to smile; he liked a kid with balls.

"Don't sweat it. Now get out of here before someone sees us talking."

The chances of someone wondering into the shower room that late at night were piss poor, but he didn't want to take any unneeded risks. Besides, he still hadn't been told the second part of Smith's plan, and he had been warned not to actually talk to the boy. Not that he was planning on following Smith's every order—he had decided that the night before—but it seemed like a good idea until he figured out how to deal with everything. Still though . . .

"Kowalski, wait."

It was obvious that the kid had just finished up with his shower, so his hair was probably still wet. Dan tilted his head at an angle so he could see him; Petey was almost already out of the door.

"It's cold out."

So maybe that had been too much; maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. The boy gave him a grateful smile, thanks, and an awkward wave goodbye though, and Dan couldn't help but feel happy. Things were moving along.

/

"Why've you been so cheerful lately, Femme-boy?"

They were in the dorm watching some crappy horror movie later that night, just the two of them like it had been during old days. Gary was sitting at one end of the couch, Petey on the other. The distance would normally bother the smaller boy since Gary wasn't known for personal space, making him wonder if something was wrong, but his friend had his legs resting on Petey's lap, so he didn't think anything of it. He braved resting a hand on Gary's ankle, not noticing the sociopath's smirk at the movement. He made sure to keep his eyes on the television in front of them, trying to keep his expression as blank as possible. Gary would make fun of him endlessly if he started to blush.

"No reason."

He swallowed, realizing it was the wrong thing to say. He knew Gary well enough to know that the boy wouldn't leave him alone until he got an actual answer. He didn't want to tell him that he thought he had a chance of making another friend, so he said the only thing he could think of, even if it did have a high chance of getting him laughed at.

"I've just missed hanging out like this."

Brown eyes, which had been narrowed, went back to their normal size. He couldn't help but laugh at Petey—the kid was so predictable. Not at all like himself. He knew that Femme-boy would either fess up about Wilson, say something girly about them spending time together, or deny anything was going on until he finally pissed him off so much that he left. It didn't matter though; Petey was a step above the rest of the monkeys at their school, and his answer pleased him enough to let the boy off the hook.

"Come here, you girl."

Without warning, Petey was tugged down so he was resting beside Gary, his back pressed against the other boy's chest. _Now_ he had to be blushing, and his heart felt like it was about to beat its way out of his body. Gary, who was chucking, was sure to have noticed. His hand pressed against Petey's chest, keeping him there, though he had made no move to get free. They stayed like that, pressed together, until the movie ended and they shuffled off to bed.

/

"You guys act like you're married."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Hopkins."

"The way you are with Pete. You act like you own him, man."

"Look, Femme-boy has to be kept on a leash. If he wasn't, he'd get himself killed."

"Whatever."

/

Gary stayed out again the next night, giving Petey some time to himself. The sheets were kicked to the bottom of the bed and the covers were thrown off; it was too hot for them. His hand was in his pajama bottoms, and as he got off, he thought about a pair of brown eyes, a smirk, hands that had a habit of touching him . . .

But then his thoughts changed. The brunette hair changed to a bright shade of red, darkening as water ran over it. Strong shoulders, arms, legs. A back to him as he watched the other boy shower . . .

The plan was working.


	4. Banana

"What a prick."

He hadn't seen Smith for days. He wasn't sure if the boy was actually avoiding him or if he was honestly just busy; he had seen the scarred freak running around the week before with the Hopkins kid, Kowalski in tow, and the three of them looked like they were up to something. It pissed him off, especially since Smith had wanted to keep his future boy-toy _away_ from the new kid. He had spent too much time trying to figure out what the sociopath was up to, even going as far as looking for him—which was what had led to his current predicament; he had somehow managed to not notice the bell going off—once he became focused on something, he became nearly oblivious to anything other than the task at hand or football—signalling it was time to go to class, which led to a Prefect—Seth, he thought—dragging him to whatever classroom he was supposed to be in at the moment. He was guessing by the decor that it was art; he hated art, mostly because he sucked at it.

"Great, just great. Whenever I catch that prick . . ."

He wasn't sure if he meant Smith or the Prefect that had caught him wondering the halls, but as he rubbed the quickly forming bump that he had received from hitting his head on the classroom door as Seth shoved him through it, he figured it was the latter.

At least it was a laid back teacher he had to deal with. If it was Mr. Hattrick he had been stuck with, there was a serious chance he'd gone off on the guy. At least with Ms. Philips, the only thing he'd have to do was pretend to put effort into whatever it was they would be painting.

"As long as she doesn't come on to me . . ."

He had said it under his breath, but a snicker to his left let him know that he had been heard. Turning his head slightly to the side to see who it was, he felt his blood begin to boil. Smith.

_'I might end up going off on someone after all.'_

"What's the problem, Danny-boy? Not your _type_?"

Not knowing _what _he was going to say but planning on making it nasty, he opened his mouth to retort—but his breath caught in his throat when he realized who was sitting next to Smith, leaning over a bit to look at him.

_'Target sighted.'_

He tried to think of something funny to say, something clever that would show Kowalski what a loser he was with. Despite how intelligent he knew he was—he knew that he rose above the stereotypical jock intelligence level, but like his sexuality, he usually made every effort to hide his IQ; his clever remark in front of Kowalski would be an exception, but since only him and Smith would hear it, it seemed like an okay one to make—he couldn't think of anything other than to close his gaping mouth.

He wasn't having trouble speaking because the boy was more attractive up close than he had previously thought, though it was true. It wasn't because his eyes held a warmth, a kindness, in them that most of the students at Bullworth lacked, though that was also true. It was because he hadn't seen the kid in a week, and he didn't know how to react to him; Smith hadn't even told him what the next part of the plan was, assuming such a thing even existed. It was as simple as that, and even if it _wasn't,_ and part of him _knew _that it wasn't, he would convince himself that it was. He barely knew the kid, after all, and the word "crush," which kept coming to his mind as he stared at the small boy and the loon beside him (though it was mostly Petey he was gazing at), was too _sissy _of a word to describe what he felt beginning to form. No, he would keep things simple: he was horny, Kowalski would be the person to get off with, he couldn't think of anything to say to speed the process up, he didn't know how to react. So why was his mouth dry and his heart beating like he had just ran a mile? He would try to figure it out later. For now, it was best to think only of the situation at hand.

His focus was mainly switching between Kowalski's eyes and the curve of his shy smile, causing him to miss Gary's glare before his expression changed to a cocky one.

"Cat got your tongue, Wilson? Or maybe something _else _does?"

Smith's voice, always so sure and smug, finally caught his attention. He wasn't sure what the psycho had said, but he knew that it had been insulting, or at least insinuating of something, and he could feel his face begin contort in anger. He was about to ask what the prick had said, but luckily for him, the teacher spoke before he could; it was no secret that he had a tempter, but it probably wouldn't be the best idea to unleash it on Kowalski's punk best friend right in front of him, even if the jackass did have it coming.

"Ah, Mr. Wilson, so glad to have you join us. Why don't you take a seat? There's an open one by Peter."

_'It took her long enough to notice me.'_

His thoughts weren't really on Ms. Philips though; despite trying to focus them elsewhere, it was hard to keep them from going to the fact that he was walking behind Peter Kowalski's chair so he could take a seat next to the boy. Even the fact that Smith scooted his chair back a bit to ram into his legs couldn't detain his excitement. Kowalski was even reprimanding the scarred boy for the action, though it was only by saying Smith's name scoldingly. Whatever. It was better than nothing.

_'Score!'_

"_Relax,_ Petey. Wilson knows it was just meant as a joke. _Right, _Dan-O?"

Smith, still smirking, was looking at him, expecting him to agree. He swallowed, unsure what to do. Kowalski, unless he was a complete idiot, would know that something was up if he just went along with it. He didn't want to seem like an asshole either though, since it seemed counterproductive to the plan. His eyes narrowed; he wouldn't put it past Smith to be doing this on purpose just to stress him out. Turning away from the two boys—Petey had been watching Dan, waiting to see how he'd react—he decided not to try to mask the irritation in his voice. He wouldn't start anything, but he wouldn't smile and take it either. He didn't know what else to do.

"Whatever."

As if Dan had never interrupted them, Smith and Kowalski went back to their discussion—something on _insects _of all things. He had a feeling Smith started it; the kid seemed like a freak, so why not choose to spend his time explaining why caterpillars should be able to burrow their way into a human skull? The conversation had something about a sandwich, peanut butter, noodles, toothbrushes, a hammock, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," grapefruit, tangerines, Cupid, eyelashes, squids, school lunch, wolves, and mustard in it by the time it was over. To Kowalski's credit (or discredit), he seemed able to handle the conversation flow. Dan couldn't decide if it was good that the boy was patient and creative (he had been the one to bring squids and mustard up), or if it was extremely bad because he could carry a conversation like that on with a lunatic without it fazing him at all. He was wondering how much of an influence Smith's company had had on the kid when he noticed something—Kowalski was trying to sneak a peek at him. Maybe the boy wasn't too far gone after all, maybe Smith hadn't molded him into something untouchable.

"I like your banana."

Dan froze, his shoulders stiff and his eyes wide. He had been caught off guard, his gaze trailing over the boy's jaw. He thought he was caught staring; he thought the boy had noticed his . . . noticed . . . he thought Kowalski had noticed the consequences of his mind wondering. His eyes met the brown ones belonging to the smaller boy beside him; they seemed to be having trouble doing so, but they kept the contact. The kid was embarrassed, clearly, and it was then that Dan noticed Smith's near-hysterical laughter.

"He thought . . . He . . . Petey, you're so _direct_!"

Still chuckling—Dan couldn't see how the kid was _breathing_—Smith, who had been doubled over, straightened up a bit. His arm went around Kowalski's shoulders, his face buried in the one closest to him. Another round of laughter, one just as loud as the previous, began.

"I didn't mean—I meant—I meant the _painting_, Gary!"

It was then that Dan realized what the kid had been talking about—the fruit bowl that he had half-assed while the two boys beside him had talked about everything under the sun. The redness of his face that had started out, though he would never admit it, as a blush had changed to anger when Smith wrapped an arm around Kowalski's shoulders, and now it was embarrassment. He couldn't believe that he had actually thought . . . The kid was awkward, he knew, but damn. He almost felt bad for Kowalski. Almost.

Fifteen minutes and several apologies from the boy next to him later, the bell rung. His erection had long since vanished, and, without bothering to turn in the piece of shit he had produced for an assignment, he left the classroom. He hurried to his dorm room, though he wasn't sure if he was going to jerkoff or hit a wall when he got there.

The image of Kowalski saying he liked something of his—though the word "banana" was no where in the sentence—and actually _meaning _what he wanted it to mean came to him, and Dan knew that something else would soon be coming.


	5. Dreaming of You

The heat in the air was almost unbearable, but it was no where near as hot as the hand rubbing his groin through his pants was making him feel, nor was it as hot as the skin on Kowalski's neck, the skin pressed against his lips, the skin he began to suck on. After bruising his boy-toy's neck—there was no way that the kid wouldn't have a hickey in the morning—Dan moved on; he kissed a slow trail from Kowalski's neck to his earlobe, his teeth nibbling on it now that he was done with the boy's neck. He doubted he would ever forget the moment—it would be the first night they went all the way; even though Kowalski hadn't said he was ready, Dan could tell—but he wanted to make it as memorable as possible. He was eager, but he was going to take his time. He owed both of them that much.

After nibbling until he was content, Kowalski's light moans spurring him on even longer than he had planned, he began to suck. Kowalski's hand was still rubbing him, though shyly, and even though the material of his boxers and slacks was keeping his dick from getting direct skin-to-skin contact, it was enough to drive him crazy. Because of this, it was no surprise that when he whispered, his tongue brushing against Kowalski's ear, his voice was husky; he could barely recognize it as his own.

"Move your hands to my shoulders."

It took Kowalski, who was just as caught up as Dan was, a few seconds to process what had been said, but after he figured it out, he did as he was told; Dan was lucky to have found someone who would follow orders—it would become handy later. They stood like that, Dan pressing Petey to the wall, one hand above the smaller boy's head, the other cupping an ass cheek, Kowalski keeping his hands on Dan's shoulders, for a matter of seconds before Dan shifted them; both hands moved to cup Kowalski's ass, the feminine boy's legs going around Dan's waist, their crotches pressed together. They began to kiss as Dan moved them towards the bed, thankful that his jock strength allowed him to carry Kowalski without any problems. He made it to the bed, laying Kowalski down on it without breaking their embrace—

—and woke up. His eyes shot open, taking in the room around him; he relaxed when he realized that he was in his dorm room. After letting out a sigh and turning to lay on his side, he closed his eyes once more. He was just thankful that his moaning—he was assuming he had moaned during his wet dream, anyway—hadn't woken Kirby up; the kid, who could sleep during a train wreck, was snoring. The load he had shot in his boxers while he slept was cold and irritating, but he would lay there a minute more before he got up, this time letting out an even more irritated sigh, to clean himself up. He wanted to think about his dream before it faded away.


End file.
